The moment the meeting in the Command Center quieted, the air still humming from the activated holo-map, old man Renn stepped forward from the back, arms crossed, face unreadable. He'd been silent the whole time, listening, chewing something thoughtfully.

  “I might know someone,” he said finally, voice like gravel over iron.

  Vermond turned. “Someone who can create blueprints?”

  Renn nodded. “Not gather. Not steal. Make them. From scratch.”

  Kiana arched an eyebrow. “Sounds rare, grandpa.”

  “He is,” Renn said, with a dry chuckle. “A bit of a brat last I saw him. Kid used to draw schematics in the dirt with a bent spoon. Wasn’t even ten yet, and he already figured out how to make a shield capacitor out of junkyard parts.”

  Vermond tilted his head. “And now?”

  Renn rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s grown, I reckon. Haven’t seen him in years. Last I heard, he was out in the sector called Iridian Verge—one of the fringe zones between old Federation space and outlaw control. Real quiet region, mostly junkers and broken relay stations. But the kid—well, the man now—he’s the type who doesn't want attention. Builds for himself. Tests things in secret. People call him the Forge Ghost.”

  “Forge Ghost?” Erie’s voice came through the comms again, with a snort. “That's either the edgiest or coolest name I’ve ever heard.”

  Renn smirked. “He didn’t choose it. People just stopped seeing him and started seeing his ships flying. Prototype stuff. Quiet drives. Plasma-hull overlays. Whole ships vanish from radar and reappear behind you.”

  Erie whistled. “If even half of that is true, he’s exactly what we need.”

  Vermond stared at the map again, zooming in slowly to Iridian Verge, marked faintly with flickering stars and old transmission lines. Quiet. Isolated. Unknown.

  “If we can find him,” Vermond said, “and if he’s willing to join us... we might have the key to building a fleet the Folkan can’t predict.”

  Kiana turned to Renn. “What’s his name, grandpa?”

  The old man smiled faintly, like recalling a fond, distant memory.

  “His real name’s Jeraldo Gred, but I doubt he uses it anymore.”

  The map adjusted again, new markers blinking near Iridian Verge. Vermond looked to his team.

  “We go quiet,” he said. “ Just a small crew and one ship. I’ll take Erie. Maybe a few elite undead to watch the shadows.”

  Old man Renn stepped back a little bit. "I knew these elites are monsters."

  Erie then spoke through the comms. "This old man doesn't even know until now."

  "What did you say?! Say that again!"

  Kiana gave a soft sigh. “What about me? Big brother.”

  “You run things here, Kiana” he said, then paused. “If the Folkan shift directions... we’ll need someone sharp to keep this station safe.”

  She looked like she wanted to argue, but then smiled. “Fine. But if you’re not back in five days, I’m sending Stitch and Nude Bro to find you.”

  Erie coughed. “...please don’t.”

  Everyone chuckled, even Renn.

  Vermond moved steadily through the hangar bay, his boots tapping against the polished floor, fifty elite undead trailing silently behind him like shadows given form. Beside him, Erie walked with his hands behind his head, eyeing the group and the looming bulk of the disguised undead destroyer.

  "You’re sure it’s just gonna be me, you, and these... None-breathing boys?" Erie asked, tilting his head toward the silent undead soldiers.

  Vermond didn’t stop walking. “The smaller the crew, the stealthier. The smaller the crew, the faster.”

  Erie grinned. “Now that’s what I like to hear. I’m getting excited already.”

  But before they could reach the ramp, soft footsteps echoed behind them. Vermond felt a sudden warmth wrap around him from behind. Kiana had run up, her arms gently locking around his back.

  “Be careful, Big Brother,” she whispered.

  Vermond paused, smiling faintly as he reached back to pat her hand. “I will, Kiana.”

  Then, like always, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

  From the side, Erie stared, eyes going wide before he dramatically dropped to his knees and pointed. “Stop this at once! My heart can’t take it!”

  Both Vermond and Kiana turned to look at him.

  “You’re just jealous,” Vermond said with a smirk.

  “I am! I miss the good old days,” Erie declared, wiping imaginary tears. “Chasing down cleansers, auctioning off their tech—now look at me! Third wheel in a romance novel!”

  Kiana giggled. “Don’t worry, Erie. Big Brother can make a clone just for you.”

  “I don’t want a clone! I want a real person! A real person!” Erie cried, flailing his arms dramatically.

  Vermond chuckled, shaking his head as he turned back to the destroyer. Kiana stepped away with a smile, her flowing white hair catching the light like silk, and her emerald eyes reflecting starlight—soft, bright, and impossibly deep.

  “Stay safe, Big Brother. And you too, Erie.”

  Erie straightened, giving a mock-salute. “Don’t worry about me, Adorable Kiana.”

  Vermond paused mid-step. “Adorable Kiana?”

  “She is adorable!” Erie shrugged, grinning. “I’m so jealous of you. Give her some more love, will you?”

  Kiana, still smiling, turned her gaze to Vermond. “Big Brother, remember… we’re not even blood-related.”

  A beat of silence.

  Vermond, finally blushed.

  “Let’s go, Erie,” he muttered quickly, heading up the destroyer’s ramp with a stiff back.

  Erie laughed the whole way up.

  The hum of the engines echoed softly through the steel bones of the undead destroyer as it slipped through the silent void, cloaked and silent. Inside, the lights were dim, and the crew—those unnerving, still-living-looking elite undead—stood like statues at their posts.

  Vermond sat quietly on an old, cushioned couch in the observation deck just outside the Command Room—Kiana’s usual spot. The faint scent of whatever warm drink she’d always sipped still lingered on the armrest. He leaned back, eyes half-lidded, staring out into the stars through the broad panel of reinforced glass.

  He could still hear her voice.

  “Big Brother… remember, we’re not even blood-related.”

  His hand twitched slightly on the fabric beside him.

  What did she mean by that...?

  He shook the thought off, though it returned again almost instantly, tapping the walls of his mind like a curious ghost. She always called him Big Brother. Always stayed close. Protective, yes… but that smile she gave him right after? That wasn’t the usual sisterly smile.

  He felt his cheeks grow a little warm.

  Across the room, Erie was sitting on a crate with his feet up, noisily munching on something dry and crunchy from a sealed bag labeled “Dried Protein Flakes – Salted Rat Flavor”.

  “Mmm… so crunchy. Want some?” Erie asked, waving the half-empty bag toward Vermond.

  Vermond didn’t even turn his head. “No.”

  Erie shrugged, tossing another flake into his mouth. “Suit yourself. You look like someone who just realized their sister might actually be into them.”

  Vermond slowly turned his head toward Erie.

  Erie smirked, not even looking up. “Just sayin’. That look on your face? That’s a ‘processing weird feelings’ face.”

  “I’m not processing anything,” Vermond muttered.

  Erie munched louder. “Sure you’re not.”

  Silence settled in again, interrupted only by the distant echo of system pings and the soft clatter of Erie’s snack bag. Vermond’s gaze returned to the stars.

  “Do you think…” he began, then stopped.

  “What?” Erie asked.

  “…Nevermind.”

  “Nope, too late. You started a sentence in space. That’s a cosmic rule, you have to finish it.”

  Vermond sighed. “Do you think she meant something with that? Saying we’re not blood-related?”

  Erie blinked, then smirked like a cat. “Yes. Yes, she did. And it wasn’t about paperwork.”

  Vermond groaned, leaning his head back against the couch cushion. “Stars above, I’m surrounded by psychos.”

  Erie grinned. “Welcome to your crew, Captain.”

  A soft chime echoed through the command deck. A system ping from their new AI Kiana inputted.

  Vermond leaned forward on the couch instinctively, eyes narrowing. A faint holographic light shimmered above the table nearby, tracing a perimeter scan that pulsed in concentric rings.

  “System proximity scan complete,” the AI intoned smoothly. “Massive gravitational signature detected: confirmed, the black hole is still stable—approximately 1.9 light-minutes from Station Anchor Point.”

  Erie squinted at the readout while still holding his snack. “Yup… that’s the big ol’ death marble alright. Kinda romantic, if you’re suicidal.”

  The screen displayed a real-time visual—the starless chasm stretching open in the void, ringed in faint blue light and distant matter streams. It looked less like a hole, and more like a wound in space.

  Vermond stood and stepped toward the holo-table. “So it's still there... good.”

  Erie cocked his head. “Good? That’s a black hole, not a pet dog.”

  Vermond pointed to the diagram. “When we get that engineer... I want the station’s power grid rebuilt. Fully. Not just solar, not just backup cores. I want to harness that.” He pointed to the black hole.

  Erie paused mid-chew. “...You're really a psycho.”

  “I’m serious,” Vermond said. “Black holes release immense radiation from the accretion disk. If we can anchor the station right, deploy specialized collectors—”

  “Psycho,” Erie repeated, louder this time, tossing the snack bag aside.

  “—We’d have infinite energy, Erie. Not just for shields or life support. For ships. Weapons. Entire fleet manufacturing. Imagine never worrying about fuel again.”

  Erie slumped against the wall. “I mean, sure, if we don’t get shredded by the tidal forces or cooked alive. Or… I don’t know, sucked into the abyss like stale soup.”

  Vermond smirked. “That’s what the engineer’s for.”

  Erie raised a hand like he was holding a toast. “To the future. And probable doom.”

  The black hole shimmered quietly in the screen above them—massive, eternal, and unknowable. And yet, Vermond didn’t look away from it. He saw something else in that void.

  Potential.

  A power that not even the Folkan or thousands of empires had mastered.

  And it would be his.

  The undead destroyer hummed steadily through space, its eerie silence broken only by the soft chittering of control panels and Erie's enthusiastic munching.

  "Anything on scans?" Vermond asked without looking.

  "Nope," Erie said, mouth full. "Just vacuum, some dust, and—wait."

  He squinted. Then leaned forward. Then screamed.

  “IT’S HIM! IT’S THAT GUY AGAIN!”

  Vermond blinked. “...What guy?”

  Erie mashed a sequence on the screen. The view zoomed in.

  Floating in a pod. Still spinning slowly in space. Arms folded. Face calm. Was the same Cleanser. The very same one they had captured. Still alive.

  Still somehow smug.

  “No way,” Vermond muttered.

  “Oh yes way,” Erie said. “He’s back! Again!”

  “The one. The spinny guy. The smug one. The cleansing maniac in a tin can.” Erie jabbed his finger toward the image. “How is he still alive?!”

  Vermond just sighed, already walking toward the docking bay.

  Minutes later…

  The pod clanked into the hangar. The elite undead surrounded it, weapons up.

  Erie stood at the front like a circus announcer. “Ladies and gentlemen, for the second time in galactic history… I present: The Cleaner Who Can’t Quit!”

  The pod opened with a dramatic hiss.

  The Cleanser sat there calmly.

  “…Greetings, abominations,” he said in his usual cold tone. “You may destroy my body, but my soul is pu—”

  Erie smacked him with a mop.

  “SHUT UP.”

  The Cleanser blinked.

  “You guys again?” he asked flatly.

  “Us again,” Vermond replied, stepping into view. “Didn’t we auctioned you back at the black spire station?”

  “I escaped,” the Cleanser said proudly.

  Erie looked like he was about to cry. “I’m done. I’m so done. Let’s just lock him in the same cell. Again.”

  They dragged the Cleanser back to the holding cell while he muttered things like "I will cleanse this galaxy" and "You’re all walking violations of cosmic code."

  "Yep. Dude’s unkillable. New mop duty buddy for Stitch." Erie muttered.

  The cell door hissed shut with a final clank. No more jokes. No more theatrics.

  Vermond stood still, watching the Cleanser through the reinforced glass. The figure inside wasn’t like before. His posture was too calm, too measured. No resistance. No raving. No smug smile.

  Just silence.

  Erie stepped forward, wiping his hands. “That’s not how he acted the last time.”

  Vermond nodded slowly, his eyes glowing faintly—213.

  “He let himself be caught.”

  “Or… something let us catch him,” Erie added grimly.

  They both turned as the Cleanser lifted his head. His voice echoed through the cell’s comm system. Not loud. Just enough.

  “You’re not the only one who learns, Necromancer.”

  Vermond's expression darkened.

  “I’ve been listening,” the Cleanser continued. “Watching. The black hole near your station… the reactor cores you scavenged… even the little Stitch. He told me things.”

  Erie stiffened.

  Vermond's voice was low. “He’s lying.”

  “Is he?” the Cleanser said softly. “How well do you really know your janitor?”

  For a moment, Erie looked toward Vermond. The weight of paranoia settled thick in the room.

  “I said,” Vermond stepped forward, eyes glowing brighter, “You’re lying.”

  The Cleanser just leaned back. Calm. Confident. Dangerous.

  “I’ve seen what’s coming,” he whispered. “I’m not here to stop you anymore, Vermond. I’m here to watch you fail.”

  Erie broke the silence first, once they were clear of the holding sector. “Stitch’s weird, yeah—but you think he’d… betray us?”

  Vermond didn’t answer right away.

  “Next call,” he said quietly, “is back to the station. If Stitch’s memory isn’t wiped, or if that thing in the cell got to him…”

  Erie tensed. “We end it.”

  Vermond’s voice was cold steel. “Yes. We do.”

  The dim hum of the undead destroyer's core pulsed through the floor, a steady beat echoing with Vermond’s thoughts. He stood alone in the command deck now, Erie having gone silent after his last worried glance.

  Vermond leaned over the control console, his reflection staring back at him in the dark glass—emerald eyes glowing faintly, the number 213 pulsing like a curse.

  "He told me things..."

  The Cleanser’s words played again in his mind, replaying over and over like a whisper behind his ear.

  "How well do you really know your janitor?"

  He hated how it stuck. How it worked.

  Stitch… the pirate, the joker, the floor mop king. And yet… he knew the corridors well. He always seemed to know when to disappear—and when to conveniently return. Vermond clenched his fists, the console’s edge creaking under the pressure.

  Could the Cleanser have gotten to him? No. He was locked away. But what if—

  What if he wasn't?

  "He let himself get caught… again."

  Vermond straightened, his face blank, but his thoughts in a whirl of shadow. He remembered what Kiana said before they left—“We’re not even blood-related.”

  Another crack in the foundation.

  "She was reminding me… I’m alone. All this time, I've been building this from bones and lies."

  The whisper of the Watcher echoed faintly from the dark corner of his mind, ancient and amused.

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

  “Let me be amused by your actions, Young God…”

  Vermond reached out and slowly pulled up the station schematics. Every corridor. Every lock. Every name listed on the roster. His finger hovered over Stitch's profile. Incomplete. Scrambled pirate code. But there it was—access levels slowly increasing.

  “Who approved that?” he muttered.

  Then, quietly, Vermond opened a new line of code. A command file. A name.

  Project Pale Mirror.

  It blinked. Awaiting confirmation.

  If betrayal came, he would be ready. He would not hesitate.

  Not again.

  The undead destroyer's lights dimmed just slightly as Vermond confirmed the command. The console buzzed low—a hesitation, a flicker—as if something ancient within the system didn’t want to wake up.

  [PROJECT: PALE MIRROR]

  Initializing...

  Accessing Archive: Vault-ZERO...

  Warning: Archive breach detected...

  "Error. Error. Error."

  Do you wish to continue? Y/N

  The screen twitched—actual twitching, like static had come alive in the shape of a jagged eye. A scraping, unnatural sound slithered through the speaker like metal being dragged underwater.

  Then, in dead silence, something typed itself:

  “The reflection watches the original.”

  Vermond’s breath hitched.

  The screen warped again. A ripple across reality, across his command table, across his thoughts. His reflection in the glass shimmered, twisted—smiled back.

  “You are not the first.”

  A cold voice, not the Watcher’s. This one was hollow, neither amused nor curious—just… waiting.

  Erie walked in right then, slurping a snack pack. "Hey, dude, the soup’s still warm in the galley if you’re—"

  He paused, catching Vermond's look. Eyes wide. Cold sweat. The screen showing nothing but black now, as if it had always been that way.

  "...Bro. You look like you saw your mom become a ship AI."

  Vermond didn’t answer at first. He just closed the terminal slowly. "Project Pale Mirror isn’t supposed to do that."

  Erie raised an eyebrow. "So… should I be worried?"

  "Yes," Vermond muttered, his voice low. "You should be very worried."

  Erie blinked. "...Okay. Cool. Gonna go finish my soup and definitely not think about dying."

  As Erie walked out, humming nervously, Vermond stared at his dim reflection on the dark console.

  This wasn’t a defense system.

  It was a key.

  And something on the other side was already looking back.

  Back at the station, deep beneath the repainted corridors and the humming white lights, a small maintenance room flickered under flickering power.

  Stitch sat cross-legged on the floor, his mop discarded beside a pile of half-washed tiles. His eyes were wide, gleaming with something off. Shadows clung to the corners of the room like they were listening—like they enjoyed what he was about to say.

  “Hehehe... Kiana... Kiana... Kiana...” he whispered to himself, almost singing now, his head tilting slowly from side to side. "So beautiful... like the stars made a girl and then gave her hair like snow... ha!"

  He twirled a bolt in his fingers, giggling. “I’ll protect you, Kiana... yes, yes... Stitch will protect you when the fire comes down.”

  Then his smile dropped.

  Cold.

  Dead.

  Whispers echoed behind his teeth.

  “But when the time comes... I’ll kill Vermond.”

  He chuckled, softer now, biting his lip until it bled. “And you’ll see me. You’ll see me instead... not your fake brother, no... me.”

  He stood slowly, smoothing down his shirt, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeves. His voice dropped to a whisper, gentler, like a lullaby meant for ghosts.

  “I just need to wait... a little longer.”

  And somewhere deep inside the room, something listened back.

  Aboard the undead destroyer, the stars outside streaked like whispers in the dark, a silent voyage through ungoverned void.

  Vermond sat on the couch Kiana always claimed, his fingers loosely resting on the armrest. The soft hum of the ship was a quiet song beneath him. He leaned back, eyes half-closed—not sleeping, just thinking.

  Her words still echoed in his mind:

  "We're not even blood related."

  He stared at the ceiling. Why did she say it like that? Why now? He tried brushing it off—he had more important things to focus on. Like the engineer. Like the ship upgrades. Like... survival.

  But still—her voice wouldn’t leave.

  Across the room, Erie sat at a nearby console, legs up, noisily munching on something crunchy.

  "You're doing that thing again," Erie said without looking up.

  Vermond blinked. "What thing?"

  "The brooding. Staring off into space like you're about to kill the next god you meet."

  "...Maybe I am."

  Erie tossed a nut in the air and caught it in his mouth. “Great. Another galactic war. Let me know ahead of time this time so I don’t show up with a sandwich in my hand.”

  Vermond let out a quiet breath through his nose—a laugh, barely.

  The destroyer shifted, its engines adjusting course. A low ping echoed through the command deck, alerting them they were nearing the coordinates Renn gave them.

  “Approaching system edge,” the ship’s AI said in a monotone voice. “Local interference minimal. Cloak stable.”

  Vermond stood, pulling the cloak of his coat around him. His eyes flickered faintly—213—etched in soft, haunting green.

  “We’ll find that engineer,” he said. “And then we’ll start turning ideas into monsters.”

  Erie gave a thumbs-up, chewing. “Nothing like inventing war machines to pass the time.”

  The stars stretched thinner now—meaning they were close.

  A small red dot flickered on the interface.

  “Unregistered civilian craft detected,” the AI said calmly. “No transponder signal. Drifting. Partially damaged.”

  Vermond stepped toward the window, eyes narrowing.

  “Pirates again?”

  Erie leaned forward. “Or maybe just junk.”

  “Or bait,” Vermond added.

  Either way, they were getting close.

  The undead destroyer slid silently through the shadows of deep space, its cloak shimmering faintly against the distant light of stars. The drifting civilian craft was left behind—no scans, no contact, no movement. Just a forgotten shell in the void. Vermond gave it no more thought.

  Finally, the coordinates pinged green.

  "Destination reached," the AI intoned. “Surface scans underway. Life detected—local population minimal. Atmosphere stable. Technological activity… moderate. Marking potential hub site.”

  The planet before them spun slow and red beneath a cloudy sky, its cities small and scattered like blinking embers. One outpost in particular stood out—a large, domed facility built into a mountain’s edge, reinforced, humming with power.

  Erie leaned over the console. “That’s gotta be him. Renn said the guy was a genius, yeah? Looks like he's carved a whole little empire out here.”

  Vermond’s eyes glowed faintly. “Scan for weapon emplacements. Any automated defense systems?”

  “Minimal,” the AI replied. “No orbital presence. Planetary shield only active at half capacity. Entry possible with minimal risk.”

  “Good,” Vermond said. “Then we’ll pay him a visit.”

  Erie stood and cracked his fingers. “Fifty elite undead, us two, and one broken engineer on a lonely mountain. This’ll go well.”

  Vermond’s mouth tilted into a faint grin. “It will.”

  The destroyer descended slowly, cloaked still, until they entered the upper atmosphere. Winds howled against the outer hull as the massive ship coasted low between mountain peaks, black and unseen.

  Within the dome, scanners began to blink—someone had noticed something was wrong.

  And far below, nestled in his fortress of cables and blueprints, he stood up from his desk, setting down a half-assembled plasma core. The ground trembled faintly. A shadow moved across the sky.

  He turned slowly toward the main screen.

  And smiled.

  "You’re finally here,” he whispered.

  Vermond, Erie, and the Undead approached the location where the engineer was stationed. They found him standing at his workspace, as if he had been expecting them.

  Vermond stepped forward with the others close behind.

  "Are you an engineer, by any chance?" he asked.

  The engineer looked up and replied calmly,

  "My name is Jard. Nice to meet you."

  Jard stared at Vermond, expression tightening, as if pieces of a long-forgotten puzzle were slowly slipping into place.

  "I always saw you," Jard said quietly, almost to himself. "In those dreams. Standing in the dark. Eyes glowing… the number always changed."

  Vermond didn’t say a word. His gaze was steady, unreadable, the light in his eyes flickering 213. Erie looked between the two, his mouth full of dried protein sticks.

  "Dreams, huh? That’s not creepy at all," Erie muttered, chewing.

  Jard let out a short breath. "You stood on a throne made of bones. You didn’t speak, but I could feel it—you were waiting. For something. For someone."

  Vermond’s voice was calm, low. “Maybe you were meant to find us.”

  Jard’s brow furrowed. “Maybe.”

  A silence hung for a moment before Erie broke it, wiping his hands on his coat. “Welp. Dream-talk aside, we didn’t come all this way for hugs and horror. We need an engineer. A real one. You still designing your own ships?”

  Jard blinked, as if snapping out of a trance. Then he smirked. “I don’t collect blueprints. I make them. Designs that breathe, move, adapt.”

  Vermond nodded. “Then you’re what we need.”

  Jard hesitated. “What for, exactly?”

  Erie leaned forward. “You ever built something designed to orbit a black hole without dying instantly?”

  Jard’s eyes lit up with interest. “No. But I’ve always wanted to try.”

  Vermond looked at him, voice even. “We have a station there. Fully restored. It needs a new heart—one that can feed from the black hole’s edge. We want you to design that heart.”

  Jard stood up slowly. “You’re serious?”

  “We don’t joke much anymore,” Vermond replied.

  Erie grunted. “Except when we catch cleansers. That’s always fun.”

  Vermond moved toward the boarding ramp. “Pack your tools. We’re heading out. And don’t bring anything you want to keep pristine—our place is alive, but it’s far from gentle.”

  Jard looked back once at his workshop—tools, half-finished hull blueprints, models scattered around. Then he followed.

  As they boarded the undead destroyer, the lights along its corridor flickered dimly, the hull humming like something breathing in the void. Jard paused, laying his palm on the metal.

  “This ship is dead,” he whispered. “But it listens.”

  Vermond just kept walking. “Welcome to the fleet.”

  The ramp closed behind them, sealing Jard’s old life away.

  The undead destroyer drifted silently through the void, cloaked in shadows, its engines humming with the low, haunting resonance of necromantic energy. Inside the dim-lit command chamber, Erie had taken the co-pilot’s seat, boots up on the console, munching on something crunchy again.

  “So,” Erie said through a mouthful, “what do we call this trip? Operation: We Found a Nerd?”

  Jard, seated near the engineering terminal, looked up with a raised brow. “I prefer the term genius, but sure, let’s go with that.”

  Vermond stood in the center of the room, arms crossed, his glowing eyes locked onto the stars ahead. “This journey isn’t just about you, Jard. It’s a test. For all of us.”

  Jard leaned back in his chair, hands steepled behind his head. “Then why does it feel like I’m the only one getting the pop quiz?”

  Erie grinned. “Because you are, nerd.”

  They passed a dying moon along the way, its crust shattered like a fractured skull. A derelict ship slowly tumbled through its orbit, its hull scrawled with claw marks and half-erased warnings in alien languages.

  Jard gazed at it from the viewport. “What happened here?”

  Vermond replied quietly, "Someone pooped at it. The crew didn’t survive.”

  “Lovely,” Jard muttered.

  They pushed on.

  Hours passed in silence, broken only by Erie occasionally playing old music through the comms—ancient stuff, all static and sorrowful guitar. Jard pretended to hate it, but never turned it off.

  Then came the storm.

  A nebula-like pocket of swirling debris, caught in the wake of two colliding gravity wells. Vermond didn’t hesitate—he guided the destroyer straight through it.

  Lightning danced across the hull.

  Alarms flared.

  Jard hung onto his seat. “This is insane! We’re going to get torn apart!”

  Erie just laughed, his hair a static mess. “Relax. this is the shortest way.”

  The destroyer groaned—but held.

  And then... silence again.

  Beyond the storm, a clear stretch of stars opened up. A beacon shimmered in the distance—the edge of their sector, and just beyond it, the blackhole system that housed the Pale Station.

  Jard sat there, sweating, eyes wide. “You’re all lunatics.”

  Vermond smiled faintly. “Welcome to the crew.”

  They passed the last set of abandoned relays—signs that once, this space was guarded. Not anymore.

  As they neared the station, the immense shape of it came into view—rebuilt, rearmed, still partially shrouded in its cloak. It hovered like a silent guardian just near the curve of the black hole’s gravitational pull.

  Jard leaned forward.

  “That... is a masterpiece.”

  Vermond said nothing, but his chest rose with something between pride and anticipation.

  Minutes later, The massive hangar bay doors opened with a mechanical hiss as the undead destroyer slid into its berth, docking with eerie precision. Inside, the pale lights of the station flickered slightly, reacting to the necromantic energy pulsing off the ship’s hull.

  Kiana was already waiting.

  She stood with her arms crossed, white hair neatly pinned back, and eyes scanning the ship as if she could sense every soul aboard. As the ramp lowered, Erie strolled down first, waving dramatically.

  “We brought the blueprint wizard,” he called out. “And no, I didn’t crash the destroyer this time.”

  Jard followed behind, eyes wide as he took in the station’s interior. “You really rebuilt this… near a black hole?”

  “Yes,” Vermond said simply as he descended last, his coat trailing behind him like a shadow. “And it runs better than most Federation husks.”

  Kiana smiled and gave a polite nod to Jard, but her eyes flicked past him—landing directly on her brother.

  “You’re tense,” she said quietly as Vermond approached.

  Vermond’s eyes, now a steady and silent 213, didn’t meet hers at first. He scanned the corridor, the shadows, the walls. Then he spoke lowly. “The cleanser… the one we captured before.”

  Kiana’s expression tightened. “What about it?”

  “It said one of your pets will bite you first.”

  Kiana blinked, slowly understanding. Her gaze shifted toward the hallway that led deeper into the station—where Stitch had been reassigned to the maintenance level.

  “You think it’s him?”

  “I know it’s him,” Vermond said. “Something’s changed. He’s not the same simpering idiot anymore. He’s hiding something.”

  Kiana’s eyes narrowed. “Want me to scan his room?”

  Vermond shook his head. “No. He’ll know. I’ll watch him. Closely.”

  Erie had overheard and leaned in, whispering with mock suspicion, “Creepy ex-pirate janitor with a secret obsession and possibly a death wish? Why do we always collect the weird ones?”

  Vermond said nothing. He just started walking again.

  Back in the shadows of the lower sector, Stitch sat hunched over, his mop leaning forgotten against the wall. The lights buzzed overhead. He was whispering to himself again.

  “Kiana… Kiana… he doesn’t deserve you… He’s just a shadow… I’ll prove it… soon…”

  His smile widened as he slowly carved something into the steel floor with a sharpened maintenance bolt.

  The shape was unmistakable: a twisted mirror… fractured down the middle.

  The Command Center was quiet—its usual hum softened under the glow of starfields and drifting data streams. Vermond sat with one leg lazily draped over the side of the Command Chair, half-asleep, his dark emerald eye flickering dimly with 213. For once, the station felt calm.

  But far below, past bulkheads and maintenance tubes, Stitch was moving.

  He crept through the ventilation like a shadow, crawling on all fours, eyes wide, unblinking. He whispered her name again and again under his breath.

  “Kiana… Kiana… Kiana…”

  He grinned, holding a stolen blade made from melted tool-parts and a broken coolant core. Madness dripped from his breath like venom.

  “She’s too perfect… too pure for him… I’ll show her. I’ll be better. She’ll see…”

  He dropped into a side corridor with a thud, landing silently despite the metal. The air around him seemed to tighten—his heart racing as he neared her location.

  Kiana was alone.

  She stood by the observation deck outside the Command Center, sipping from her favorite carved mug, eyes reflecting the swirl of galaxies. Her white hair gently shifted as if touched by unseen wind.

  Stitch stepped from the shadow, clutching the blade. “Kiana… I—”

  Then everything stopped.

  The lights dimmed—not from a power loss, but from something else. Reality itself bent.

  And then it happened.

  Behind Kiana, something bloomed into being.

  A presence—radiant, ancient, terrifying in its beauty. It wasn’t just a goddess—it was beyond divine. A celestial being of white flame and gold shimmer stood tall behind her, mirroring her stance with arms crossed, the air crackling with quiet might.

  Her eyes—her true eyes—opened.

  Stitch’s blade clattered to the floor.

  His knees buckled.

  “I… I…”

  Kiana slowly turned to face him, her smile calm, serene. “Did you think I was unaware, Stitch?”

  The energy surged, her hair lifting gently as if moved by cosmic tides. The air thickened with light. Her voice rang like glass bells and distant thunder.

  “You thought I needed protecting?”

  Stitch, trembling, fell forward, bowing instinctively—groveling before her unknowable power.

  Kiana tilted her head, expression never changing.

  “Try again, and you’ll learn what lies beneath divinity.”

  She didn’t need to raise a hand. She didn’t need to command.

  Stitch collapsed in fear and awe, twitching as the goddess figure slowly faded back into her.

  Then she turned back to the stars, took another sip, and softly said, “Big brother’s resting. Keep it down.”

  From the Command Chair, Vermond’s eye opened.

  He had felt it.

  “…Kiana,” he murmured.

  And for the first time in a long while…

  He didn’t feel like the most dangerous one on this station.

  The lights in the Command Center were low, casting long shadows across the sleek floor. Vermond lay still on the reclining command chair, eyes closed, breathing slow and steady—too steady.

  He wasn’t asleep.

  He could feel it—the air shifting, the faintest scrape of metal against metal.

  Stitch.

  Slithering through the shadows like a rat high on madness, Stitch crept in, silent, breathing through clenched teeth. In his hand, a needle-thin vibroblade stolen from the medbay, barely visible in the gloom. His lips curled into a feverish grin as he approached Vermond.

  “This is it…” he whispered. “Without you… she’ll be mine.”

  Vermond's fingers twitched slightly, barely noticeable. He waited.

  But before Stitch could move—before the blade could lower—a presence dropped like a divine hammer upon the room.

  The air thickened. The lights flared.

  Kiana appeared.

  No doors opened. No sound warned. She was just there, a vision wrapped in white light. Her hair drifted as if underwater, and her glowing emerald eyes burned with something ancient and terrifying.

  Vermond’s eyes remained shut… but his heart skipped.

  “I already gave you a chance, Stitch,” Kiana said, her voice carrying a resonance that didn’t belong to a girl anymore.

  Stitch froze mid-step, every part of him seized by invisible pressure. He dropped the blade. His mouth opened, but no words came.

  Vermond remained still, struggling to process what he was hearing. Was this still his sister?

  Kiana’s smile never wavered.

  “Nobody,” she whispered sweetly, “can touch my big brother.”

  Her tone sharpened like breaking glass.

  “Nobody can kill my big brother.”

  Her eyes flared blindingly now—cosmic, celestial.

  “Nobody can love my big brother.”

  Then she pointed one delicate finger at Stitch, her smile stretching just a little too wide.

  “I’m the only one who has the authority to love him.”

  Stitch screamed—not from pain, but from a primal terror—his body contorting as if the universe itself had turned on him.

  And then—

  He vanished.

  No sound. No flash. Just… gone.

  Only a faint, echoing ping from the floor where he once stood.

  Kiana turned calmly toward the chair, eyes still glowing.

  “I know you’re awake, Big Brother.”

  Vermond opened one eye slowly, meeting her gaze. “...What are you?”

  She walked to him, leaned close, and whispered—

  “Still your little sister.”

  Then she gently kissed his forehead, and walked out like nothing had happened.

  Vermond blinked, eyes wide.

  “…I think I just saw the real monster on this station,” he muttered.

  The soft hum of the station echoed quietly around the Command Center. Vermond stood before the wide glass panel, watching the starless void beyond, the reflection of his emerald eyes dimly etched in the glass—still showing the number 213. His mind raced—not with plans, not with tactics—but with the image of Kiana, her eyes glowing like something not from this world, her voice carrying the weight of divinity.

  He clenched his fists, unsure if it was fear or awe he felt.

  Then—

  Light steps approached. Familiar. Gentle.

  Without a word, Kiana slipped behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, resting her head against his back. Her presence, warm and calming, contrasted deeply with what had just happened earlier.

  “Big brother…” she said softly, “don’t fear me.”

  Vermond tensed slightly.

  “I love you more than you think,” she whispered, her voice like stardust against his mind. “And you’re stronger than me. You just… don’t use your power correctly.”

  Before he could reply, Kiana gently turned him around and guided him to the old couch—her couch—and pushed him down to sit. She leaned close, her white hair brushing against his face, her smile glowing brighter than any star.

  “Big brother has such a good personality,” she said sweetly.

  Vermond’s throat tightened.

  Kiana then stood, straightened her hair with a graceful flick, and headed for the door.

  She looked back one last time, and with that same smile—the kind that hid galaxies and storms behind it—she said, “Big brother should get stronger soon…”

  She stepped into the hall, her silhouette framed by light.

  “…because I might hug you so tight next time you can’t escape from my hug, Big brother.”

  The door hissed shut.

  Vermond sat motionless on the couch, heart thudding.

  “…I’m really not ready for this,” he muttered to himself.

  The door had barely closed behind Kiana before silence returned to the Command Center. But it wasn’t the usual silence of idling systems and empty corridors—this one had a presence.

  Vermond leaned back into the couch, his expression unreadable, eyes half-lidded as if lost in thought. But he wasn’t.

  “…You can come out now, Erie,” he said calmly.

  A soft rustle came from behind a panel near the holo-table. Then, with a sheepish grin and crumbs clinging to his collar, Erie popped out like a poorly timed ghost from a cheap haunted house.

  “Whew… okay, okay—how the hell did you know I was there?” Erie asked, brushing grease and potato chip fragments from his jacket.

  Vermond just raised a brow. “You talk in your sleep. You were muttering about fried fish and... 'Kiana's elbow' for some reason.”

  “I did not—wait—shut up.” Erie crossed his arms, but then blinked. “Wait. No. Seriously—how did you know? I was completely hidden. Not even sensors caught me.”

  Vermond turned his gaze to his hand, flexing his fingers slowly. There was a faint, green-black mist swirling briefly around them—something ancient, something refined.

  “I didn’t hide you,” Vermond said slowly. “Not intentionally. I just… didn’t want Kiana to know you were watching.”

  Erie tilted his head. “So?”

  “I felt it,” Vermond muttered. “The moment I thought it… the shadows around you shifted. Like they listened to me. Wrapped around you.”

  Realization dawned. Vermond clenched his fist, and the shadows flickered out.

  “I used necrotic energy... instinctively,” he said. “Not to control the dead—but to manipulate presence. To veil someone. That’s new.”

  Erie blinked, then let out a low whistle. “So, wait—does that mean you can cloak people with that creepy dead magic now? Dude. That’s cool.”

  Vermond stood, eyes glowing faintly. “It’s more than cloaking. I didn't force the energy. It agreed with me. Like it’s becoming… part of my will.”

  Erie looked genuinely impressed for once. “Okay, now you’re sounding like a real necro-lord. Still—uh, kinda creepy how Kiana basically deleted Stitch.”

  Vermond glanced at the door Kiana had left through. “…Yeah.”

  Erie smirked. “And you're still gonna pretend you're not a little scared of her, huh?”

  Vermond sighed. “She’s not to be feared. She’s to be understood.”

  Erie rolled his eyes. “Yeah well… good luck with that, Romeo the Undead.”

  And with that, the two stood alone in the Command Center—one slowly awakening to powers he’d never known, the other halfway through a bag of chips.

  Time passed.

  Kiana had always been close to Vermond—quiet, observant, sharp with her scans and efficient in her tech work—but lately… something had shifted.

  She no longer stayed in the background or kept her distance when the crew discussed plans. She followed Vermond nearly everywhere, always close, always watching. In the Command Center, in the hangar, even when he was walking the dark, quiet corridors of the station—Kiana was there.

  And she didn’t hide her affection anymore.

  Sometimes, she’d wrap her arms around his arm while they walked. Other times, she’d sit right beside him on the couch, her shoulder pressed to his, watching the stars on the central screen. Her smile had changed too—no longer soft and cautious, but confident. Even possessive, at times.

  “Big brother,” she’d say, her voice light as always, “You think too much. Just sit. Let me stay beside you a little longer.”

  Vermond didn’t protest. He’d noticed it, of course. The subtle change in her eyes, that divine shimmer that sometimes flickered behind them. The way her energy felt now—no longer just human. Something deeper. Something powerful. And protective. Fiercely so.

  He wasn’t sure when it began—after Stitch tried to kill him? Or was it earlier, after the raid? After she said those words: “We’re not even blood related.”

  And yet… despite all of it, Kiana’s presence calmed him. Maybe it was her warmth, or maybe that strange cosmic strength she now held—something far beyond what Vermond could explain. Whatever it was, her touch no longer felt like a sister’s alone.

  One evening, as Vermond was reviewing ship schematics on the holo-table, Kiana snuck up behind him and wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning over his shoulder.

  “You’re always thinking of building,” she whispered softly, “When will you start thinking of yourself?”

  Vermond didn’t respond immediately.

  “…I am,” he said finally. “I’m building for the people who chose to follow me. For you.”

  Kiana smiled against his neck. “Good answer, big brother. But still... I’ll never let you go. You know that, right?”

  He nodded silently.

  And from somewhere in the corner of the room, Erie peeked in and sighed heavily. “Here we go again…” he mumbled, shaking his head and turning back before they could spot him. “They’re gonna drive me insane one day, I swear.”

  The meeting began.

  The meeting room inside the command center was dimly lit, the holographic projection of the ship schematics casting shifting blue lights across everyone’s faces. A calm hum from the system filled the silence, interrupted only by the occasional beep or flicker from the display.

  Vermond stood at the head of the table, tall and quiet, as always—but this time, Kiana was pressed to his side, her arms wrapped gently around his arm, her head resting lightly against his shoulder. She wasn't saying much, but her presence said everything: he’s mine.

  Across the table sat Renn, with Ruen next to him, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Jard, newly returned, was fiddling with a small handheld schematic projector, adjusting the parameters of the next build. Erie slouched in his seat, chewing on a protein bar he claimed tasted like burnt plastic.

  And then, the mood shifted just slightly when Erie muttered under his breath, breaking the quiet tension.

  “Hey old man,” he said, glancing toward Renn with a crooked smirk. “You’re too old for this kind of atmosphere. Makes you look lonely.”

  Renn didn’t even look up from the projection. “Shut up, you muscle head,” he grunted. “Go lift something useful.”

  “Already did,” Erie shot back. “Lifted Vermond’s ego earlier after that mission.”

  Jard stifled a laugh but didn’t look up.

  Kiana, without lifting her head from Vermond’s arm, spoke quietly but clearly. “Erie, you’re loud.”

  “I know,” Erie said proudly.

  Vermond finally spoke, his voice calm and grounding. “Focus. Jard, how long until we can get the new cruiser designs running through the fabricators?”

  Jard blinked, snapping back into professional mode. “We’re close. I’ve already adjusted the design algorithms to match the undead hull requirements. We’ll need more core-grade alloy, though. The reactor output needs to withstand extended warp capability.”

  “Then we raid again,” Vermond said without hesitation.

  Kiana’s grip on his arm tightened slightly, but she said nothing.

  Ruen finally spoke, his voice soft. “And what about defense systems for the station? If we keep pulling attention, someone’s going to come knocking.”

  “We’ll have a ring defense grid,” Jard said. “Once the outer turrets are in place, the black hole can help us. If we angle the gravity pulls right… we can slingshot enemy vessels into it.”

  Erie grinned. “Now that’s brutal. I love it.”

  Kiana slowly raised her head from Vermond’s shoulder, eyes glowing just faintly. “Just don’t let any of them get close. If they do… I won’t be happy.”

  Everyone in the room paused. Even Renn glanced up, slightly unsettled.

  Erie whispered to himself, “What happened to that sweet girl who used to fix scanners?”

  Vermond only smirked.

  “She’s still here,” he said. “Just… more powerful now.”

  And as the room settled back into strategy, none of them could quite ignore the gentle pressure of Kiana’s hold on him—or the divine shimmer that seemed to linger just behind her smile.

  Then here comes the unexpected plan.

  The meeting slowly shifted from strategy into deeper planning, the holographic maps now switching to a three-dimensional schematic of the god-tier frigate. Vermond, still with Kiana wrapped gently around his arm, tapped a glowing symbol on the console—bringing up hidden blueprints embedded deep within the ship’s core files.

  The schematic shifted, transforming before their eyes. Panels folded inward. Cannons retracted. The entire god-tier frigate’s shape began to shift into something far more linear and menacing.

  Vermond narrowed his glowing eyes. “I almost forgot… This thing can transform.”

  Jard leaned forward, squinting. “Wait, wait—what is that configuration?”

  Erie blinked. “Yeah yeah, when some of the crew pressed something inside it, it transformed back then.”

  Jard’s eyes went wide as realization hit. “It is a railgun. A massive one. Built into the frigate’s hull itself. This isn't normal—this is a prototype hybrid-class. It wasn't supposed to exist.”

  Vermond smiled faintly, gaze locked on the model. “Can we place it above the Command Center? I want it facing outward… like a divine spear.”

  Jard slowly turned to him with a grin. “Yes. We can. It’ll take work. A lot of reinforcement. Power rerouting. But the core structure of the station can handle it. We’ll have to mount it with shock-absorption fields and run it on its own energy cell or it’ll melt the top off the station when it fires… but it’s doable.”

  Renn leaned back, his jaw slack. “You’re planning to put a god-tier railgun on top of the station? That’s either genius or suicide.”

  Erie crossed his arms, grinning. “Sounds like Vermond to me.”

  Kiana finally let go of Vermond’s arm just to clasp her hands behind her back, eyes shimmering. “I think it sounds beautiful.”

  Ruen, watching from the corner, sighed. “And people wonder why we scare everyone.”

  Vermond looked up at the projection of the station, imagining the railgun mounted like a crown. “Good. Let them be scared.”

  And just outside the station, the god-tier frigate was already being slowly moved into position. It hovered with dignity—an ancient weapon now finding a new purpose.

  Soon, it would become a spear aimed at the cosmos. A symbol that the undead were not just survivors.

  They were builders of war.

  The station buzzed with life—if it could be called that. Elite undead moved like precise machines, shifting metal, welding supports, dragging fusion cables across reinforced walkways. The top of the Command Center had been opened up, the dome peeled back to make room for something massive.

  On one of the scaffolds, Erie stood, arms crossed, watching as the god-tier frigate was slowly maneuvered into position by thruster drones and magnetic clamps. “So this is really happening,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

  Below, Jard paced back and forth with a data slate in hand, shouting out commands. “I want that rotation joint connected before the stabilizers go in! We’re not blowing this thing off the roof the moment we fire it!”

  An undead with a white mask gave a slow nod, moving to comply. Another team dragged up a huge power conduit the size of a small shuttle.

  From the lift, Vermond stepped out, Kiana beside him. She walked close, holding his hand like a possessive shadow, eyes gleaming as the construction unfolded above.

  Jard saw them and jogged over, nearly tripping over a loose panel. “Vermond! You’ve got timing. The coupling rings are in place. We’re halfway to mounting the railgun.”

  Vermond looked up at the beast of a weapon, the god-tier frigate now just a shell with purpose. “Will it be stable?”

  “Once we secure it to the platform and reroute the station’s main coil flow—yes. The feedback loops will take time to calibrate, but it’ll hold.”

  Kiana whispered softly, eyes on the railgun, “It looks like a divine weapon…”

  Erie snorted. “Yeah, divine destruction.”

  Renn came limping up the walkway with Ruen in tow. The old man squinted at the construction. “You’ve turned our station into a damn shrine to vengeance.”

  Vermond didn’t look at him. “No. A fortress. A warning.”

  Ruen crossed his arms. “What are we calling it?”

  Everyone turned. Jard raised a brow.

  Vermond’s light eyes gleamed with the number 213. “Pale Mirror.”

  Kiana tilted her head. “Why Pale Mirror?”

  Vermond smiled faintly. “Because when they see it, they’ll see the reflection of their end… and nothing more.”

  Jard gave a whistle. “That’s metal as hell.”

  Erie chuckled. “I like it.”

  Suddenly, a heavy vibration shook the scaffold as the final clamps locked into place. The god-tier railgun’s spine aligned with the station’s core, lights flickering to life as the weapon’s own system synced with the Command Center.

  A low hum filled the air—deep, ominous, powerful.

  Jard stared at the readings. “It’s syncing perfectly… We’ve got charge control. Give me a day, and we can test fire.”

  Vermond nodded, then turned away. “You have twelve hours.”

  “Of course I do,” Jard muttered.

  Kiana tightened her hold on Vermond’s hand, leaning her head on his shoulder. “Big brother… Pale Mirror suits you. So cold, so beautiful, so deadly.”

  Erie leaned toward Renn. “I’m worried about her. She's gotten... weird.”

  Renn sighed. “Join the club.”

  But none of them looked away from the railgun now gleaming above their heads—soon to be the heart of a legend yet to be written in fire and silence.

  Inside the dimly lit interior of the undead destroyer, where flickering necrotic lights crawled like veins through the walls, Kiana moved like a ghost. Silent. Intentional. Her white hair shimmered under the blacklight veins pulsing in the corridor, her emerald eyes calm… almost too calm.

  She reached the cell where the captured cleanser stood chained in a containment field, unmoving as always—until she arrived.

  The cleanser's blank eyes flickered, perhaps sensing something far beyond its comprehension.

  Kiana stepped forward, whispering, “You’re not like Stitch… But you're the same. You wanted him dead, didn’t you? You all want him dead.”

  The cleanser didn’t respond. It couldn’t. It just stared.

  Kiana tilted her head. “He’s mine. You don’t get to touch him.”

  Suddenly, footsteps echoed down the hallway, silent but familiar. Behind one of the nearby corners, Vermond and Erie hid in the shadows. Vermond’s face was unreadable, though his eyes shimmered faintly, already feeling the strange divine pressure leaking from his sister.

  Erie leaned in and whispered, “She snuck off like a cat… I told you she’s been acting weird.”

  “Quiet,” Vermond said. But his eyes never left her.

  Kiana raised her hand slowly. “Stitch didn’t listen either… I gave him a chance. I’m generous. I really am.”

  The energy around her fingertips glowed—no, radiated—with that same divine light that had appeared when Stitch vanished. Her voice, though soft, echoed with a power that didn’t belong to this universe.

  “You won’t have another chance.”

  With one gentle flick of her finger, the light expanded—and just like that, the cleanser vanished. Not destroyed. Erased.

  Silence fell.

  Kiana turned around.

  And saw Vermond standing there.

  Her face remained calm, but her smile curled upward. “Oh… Big brother, were you spying on me?”

  Vermond stepped forward slowly, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing, Kiana?”

  Kiana tilted her head and walked toward him, her voice sweet. “Cleaning the dirt from your path.”

  Erie, stepping beside Vermond, squinted. “You just erased it. Just like that?”

  Kiana’s glowing eyes didn’t even blink. “He was never important. Only my big brother is.”

  Vermond stared at her, feeling the weight of something vast and ancient inside his sister—something that might not even be human anymore.

  Still, he said nothing. Just turned and walked away.

  Kiana followed like a shadow, humming softly.

  And Erie whispered to himself, “What the hell is she becoming…”

  Back aboard the station, the hallways hummed with activity—undead workers moving supplies, Jard overseeing construction, and the massive God-tier frigate now restructured as a towering railgun being slowly installed atop the Command Center. But beneath the noise and bustle… Vermond and Erie walked in silence.

  They said nothing until they reached the overlook—a dark, enclosed walkway that gave them a full view of the void outside. Only the stars, the growing station silhouette, and the slow rotation of the black hole in the distance kept them company.

  Vermond leaned on the railing, his eyes narrowed.

  Erie stood beside him, arms crossed. “You’re thinking the same thing I am, right?”

  Vermond didn’t look at him. “She didn’t hesitate.”

  “No,” Erie said. “She didn’t. And that energy... That wasn’t necrotic, wasn’t tech. That was something else.”

  Vermond’s fingers tightened around the rail. “She erased a cleanser like it was a speck of dust. And that wasn’t the first time.”

  Erie grunted. “Stitch. And now this one. I saw her smile. Like she enjoyed it.”

  They fell quiet again.

  Vermond finally said, “This isn’t Kiana’s power. Not fully. Something else is using her—or maybe she’s letting it in.”

  Erie looked at him sideways. “And what’re you gonna do? Confront her?”

  Vermond’s voice dropped. “Not yet. Not unless she crosses a line. Right now… she still calls me big brother. She still listens.”

  “But how long till that changes?” Erie asked.

  Vermond stared out into the stars, the number in his eyes briefly flashing—213.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “But if it does… I’ll stop her.”

  Erie exhaled and looked away. “Damn it… I hate this quiet tension stuff.”

  Vermond smirked faintly. “You prefer screaming and explosions?”

  “Hell yeah,” Erie muttered. “At least you know who to punch.”

  Vermond gave a low chuckle… but deep in his chest, a knot was tightening.

  Only the two of them knew now.

  And for Vermond, that made it even more dangerous.

  As the time passes, The station's hum grew deeper, almost menacing, as the God-tier frigate—now fully transformed into a massive railgun—sat at the apex of the Command Center. The cold steel of its barrels gleamed under the station's lighting, an ominous reminder of the raw power it now possessed. It towered over everything, a weapon capable of bringing down entire fleets, and possibly... more.

  Vermond stood at the overlook, his eyes tracing the railgun's form as if it were an extension of himself. Kiana had left his side for now, but her presence still lingered, like an unseen weight on his shoulders. The machine, too, felt like a reminder that things were changing—darkening.

  Beside him, Erie stood, arms crossed, eyeing the structure with a mix of awe and disbelief. "That’s... a hell of a piece of tech you’ve got there, Vermond. Are we really gonna use it?"

  Vermond didn't answer at first. He could feel the railgun's potential, the way it thrummed with a barely contained energy that whispered of destruction. His eyes flickered momentarily, reflecting the number 213, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was the question Erie had asked.

  "We're gonna use it, alright," Vermond finally replied, his voice quiet but firm. "We’re building something bigger than ourselves now. The Federation, the Folkan, the Outlaws... they’ll all have to understand one thing."

  Erie raised an eyebrow. "What’s that?"

  "That we’re not just surviving anymore. We’re taking control." Vermond’s gaze shifted back to the railgun, as if the sight of it was giving him clarity. “And if that means a little destruction along the way…”

  The hum of the station’s energy systems deepened.

  Vermond’s lips curled into a small, calculating smile.

  "We’ll send a message. No one messes with us. Not anymore."

  Erie paused for a moment, looking at the railgun again. "A message, huh? That’s one hell of a way to send it."

  As the station's core systems powered up, the lights flickering with an eerie pulse, the railgun hummed louder, as though it was eager for what was to come. The cold air around them grew heavier.

  From a distance, the power of the railgun was undeniable—a singular, terrifying piece of machinery that could wipe out entire fleets in a single shot.

  “Let’s make sure it’s ready,” Vermond said, finally breaking the silence. “We’ve got a lot more to do before we leave this place. But we need the message to be loud, clear, and unmissable.”

  Erie nodded slowly, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Hell of a thing to wake up to, huh? The galaxy better hope we don’t get bored.”

  Vermond’s eyes flickered once more, the number in them blinking — 213.

  “We’re not just going to get bored,” he said, his voice colder than before. “We’re going to take the galaxy by storm.”

  As the power surged through the station, echoing through its halls, it was clear: the stage was set. The next chapter had begun.

  And the universe was about to feel the full force of what they had unleashed.